


She was the Warrior Woman

by Tyellas



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fix-It of Sorts, Road Warriors, Worldbuilding, a little Wasteland flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7438701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/pseuds/Tyellas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of us watching a livestream of <i>Mad Max: The Road Warrior</i> all agreed: the Warrior Woman should survive. In this story, she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She was the Warrior Woman

**Author's Note:**

> A short piece originally posted on Tumblr. I picture this taking place years before _Fury Road_ , right after a young Max has survived the events of _Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior._ Does the Warrior Woman stick with her rescuers after this, or does she later join the Vuvalini? You decide!

The last thing she remembered was Humongus’ scavs dumping her.

“She’s dead meat, we could – “

“She’s dead weight. We need to run. Road Warrior won! We stop to take her hide, he takes ours!”

Threadbare tires squealed briefly on asphalt, blunted on sand.

She arched, trying to rise, and failed in pain. Even her eyelids were too heavy to lift.

The last thing she thought was that she was the Warrior Woman, and this was no way to die.

* * *

The first thing she heard was another debate.

“Dead or alive?”

“That’s a bloody good crossbow.” 

“Unh!”

That small noise, of life and denial, was hers. Dead or alive? She didn’t know herself, desperately clenching her weapon.

“Alive! Alive and a fighter!” the one above her rasped. “I’m in love.”

“Then _you_ give her water.”

“Right. I will.”

Maybe she was drinking, or maybe it was being poured over her face. Either way, it was sweet relief, the water and knowing she’d die understood.

* * *

Her eyes flew open at last. She found herself alone, in a musty tent. Everything hurt. She had further vague memories of healing pain, guzzling more liquid, somebody saying they’d see. This time, she could move. She glanced down. Her pale clothing, known for kilometres around as the garb of Pappagallo’s peaceable crew, a perpetual white flag, was hopelessly stained. But the metal plates hidden in the layers of fabric had done their job. The side of her head was heavy with bandages. She felt her face. Everything seemed intact. Other people had told her she was beautiful. She hadn't cared, most of the time. Other things were more important. Right now, she was breathing, conscious. She could even stand.

Step by small step, she left the tent, her injured thigh stiff and numb. It was dusk. Someone was out there.

Their strangeness made her reel with grief. She creaked, “I shouldn’t be here. Alive.”

The big, bluff guard rose slowly from a camp stool.  He said, “You were Pappagallo’s crew.”

Across the dusty half-desert, a smear of smoke caught the sunset on the horizon: the last of their small refinery. Gazing at it, she said, “We called ourselves his people…”

The guard moved a chewy mouthful from one side of his jaw to the other. “What the bloody hell happened?”

After the verbosity of Pappagallo's folk, she liked his terseness. She replied in kind. “They’re gone, now. They were tired of fighting all the time. They ran for the coast. Our… crew were a distraction. A suicide run.” 

“Shame! Looked amazing. We watched from the hills. That Rig bashing right through Humongus! Bam! Ha ha! Who was your driver?”

She bowed her head, thinking of the road warrior they’d deceived. “Some fool.”

“Is it. We could use a fool like that.”

She was finally tuning into the present outside her own body, turning to see her surroundings, a ring of heavy vehicles surrounding a few tents. “Who are you?”

The guard spread his arms, shoulders broadening with pride, gesturing to take in the group around them. “We’re the Convoy. Get you where you need to be. Last of the Saffas. You got the bikkies, we got the bakkies.” She looked around. This wasn’t Pappagallo’s assortment of knowers and dreamers, older than she, clinging to a time before. That dream was over. Everyone here was a fighter, like her. She approved of their clothing, dusty and dark, far better camouflage.

The guard shuffled. “You, uh, want some biltong? It’s ‘roo.”

She accepted a few slips of dried meat. Chewing through them took a good ten minutes. When he gestured to the camp stool, she sat, gratefully.

“How ‘bout this? You can shoot a crossbow, you can shoot this.” He handed her an unspeakable treasure: his AK-47. Her hands dropped beneath its loaded weight.

She gasped at its beauty. “But – the ammunition!”

“We go everywhere. Across the flood and the Salt in the middle. Coast to coast! They say it’s a wasteland. But bullets, guzzoline, salvage, green places, all out there.” He tried to sound casual as he said, “Come along. You’d earn your way. Don’t want to stay Convoy, pick somewhere.”

Peace? Or the long fight? Keeping the wheel of civilization turning with her own ferocity?

She knew the answer already.

She was the Warrior Woman.

She lifted the gun he’d given her, to leave himself unarmed. “Were you the one who said you were in love?”

The big man twitched, caught out.

After the heartless road warrior called Max, she was glad another fighter could still feel. She smiled. “Perhaps you should tell me more.”


End file.
